A Push And A Shove
by indiegal
Summary: Sometimes, a little push is all it takes..


Afterwards, I wasn't entirely sure how it had happened. The last thing I remembered clearly was Japp and I chasing our suspect down an alleyway, then suddenly there was a lot of pain and confusion. There was a hospital visit, and a concerned Poirot next to me. I became aware through my headache that they were discussing me, and the doctor was reluctantly agreeing to let Poirot take me home rather than keeping me in overnight. I was profoundly grateful for my friend's solicitousness – after the war, I had had more than enough time in hospital. He helped me into a taxi, and we began the short ride home.

"What happened?" I managed to ask. Poirot looked relieved at my newly regained ability to speak.

"You tripped while running and banged your head into a wall, mon ami," he replied. "The doctor thinks you may have the concussion – I am to keep my eye on you for the next two days to make sure you have not the permanent injury."

"Oh," was all the reply I could muster before lapsing back into silence. We reached the flat shortly afterwards, where Poirot helped me out of the car and up to our rooms. Installing me on one of the sofas, he headed into the kitchen and returned not long after with a cup of tea, which I took gratefully. The hot liquid helped revive me somewhat, a change which must have showed on my face as Poirot also seemed to relax a little.

"Bon," he said, "You look now more like the Hastings I know, and less like the ghost!" I chuckled weakly and suggested retiring for the night. When I looked in the mirror above the bathroom sink, I could see what had him worried – I looked terrible! I looked hurriedly away and began my nightly ablutions.

When I returned to my bedroom, however, I was in for a shock. Poirot, in his pyjamas and dressing gown, was rearranging my bed and settling some of his things on my nightstand.

"I say Poirot, what's going on?" I asked, bemused. My friend looked up at me, his face set as if anticipating an argument.

"It is important that I keep an eye on you at all times, the doctor said. I am to check on you throughout the night, and be close by should the problem arise. So, I sleep in here."

"Right," I agreed, not entirely comprehending. "Goodnight, then." I got into bed and closed my eyes, hoping that sleep would at least reduce the headache, if not totally ease it.

I was awakened a few times in the night by Poirot, who shook me gently to start with, then more and more vigorously whilst repeating my name increasingly loudly until I responded with "Yes, Poirot, I'm awake! Now can I go back to sleep please?" At this he would be satisfied and a little bit contrite and murmur something along the lines of "Yes, mon ami, sleep now." When I awoke the final time, it was of my own volition and feeling immensely better. To my right, Poirot was sleeping soundly and I looked over at him fondly. He must have had a worse night's sleep than I had, I realised, and I resolved to slip quietly out of bed to allow him some extra time. As I padded through to the kitchen in search of coffee, I reflected on how peaceful my friend had looked as he lay sleeping and how it had made him seem younger somehow. I wished I could see him look like that more often. This thought startled me somewhat, but I thought about how much my friend had come to mean to me and how I wished I could take better care of him. I followed this line of internal questioning down the natural path it took, with the result that by the time I started to hear the sounds of Poirot awakening, I had reached the obvious, undeniable truth. The bedroom door opened and as I looked at my friend's face and saw the worry etched there turn to relief when he saw me, it hit me again. 'I love you', I thought to myself, 'I love you more than anything in the world, and there's nothing I can do about it.'

I made it through the rest of the day somewhat glad of the excuse that my head injury gave me for being a little out of sorts, as I was definitely acting far from normal. My friend, watching out as he was for oddities in my behaviour, could not fail to notice the periods of abstraction and sudden flushes that kept occurring at the most inopportune moments, but luckily for me, attributed them to my 'concussion' and redoubled his efforts to look after me. The real problem came in the evening, when I discovered that Poirot was again intending to spend the night in my bed.

"Absolutely not, Poirot, I feel fine! There's really no need for you to put yourself out like this over nothing!" The little man was sitting up in my bed watching me pace the room while I frantically searched for an argument that would get him to move. It would be too embarrassing to have to share a bed with the man again, knowing what I now knew about myself. Could I trust myself to stay a respectable distance when all I wanted was to press up against him and feel his body next to mine?

"It is not nothing, Hastings, it is your health and it is more important than your stubborn English prudishness." I stopped my pacing, brought back to reality by his words.

"My what?" I asked. Poirot returned my gaze.

"You are embarrassed to be sharing a bed with another man, non? It is not what the English do, you think." I flushed, and attempted a light hearted chuckle.

"Not at all, Poirot!" My voice, which I had hoped to make sound casual, sounded strained even to my ears and I winced internally as Poirot raised his eyebrows. "It just seems so silly to have another sleepless night when I'm perfectly fine!" As I spoke, I remembered all the 'symptoms' I had been displaying all day and sighed. What had seemed very convenient at the time was now damned irritating. "Fine!" I huffed out, flipping back the sheets and climbing into bed. "But don't blame me if I snore all night!" I rolled onto my side facing away from Poirot, as far from him as I could get in the small space. I heard him sigh once, then the light went out.

An hour later, I was lying rigidly in exactly the same spot, having not moved a muscle since getting into bed. I was hyper-aware of my friend, sleeping less than a metre from me. I knew that if I rolled over, he would be within touching distance. It was an urge that was getting harder and harder to resist, and within a few minutes I had given in and shifted gently on the spot until I could see my friend's face in the darkness. Poirot was on his back, his hands clutching the top of the sheet just like he had been when I left him this morning. I smiled to myself, enjoying the opportunity to look at him unobserved. My gaze drifted downwards, to the form I could just about make out through the sheets. It was almost unbearable, to be so close and yet not be able to touch him. As if acting of its own accord, my hand slowly lifted towards him, itching to touch and yet scared to do so. Just as I was about to gently rest my hand on my friend's hip, I flicked my eyes back up to his face and my stomach gave a lurch. Poirot had his eyes wide open and was watching my every move, following the hand that I quickly snatched back then looking up to meet my terrified gaze.

"Hastings?" he murmured quietly, "You are not well?" I swallowed.

"No, I'm fine thanks old chap," I replied, equally quietly, "Sorry about that. Must have been half asleep still.." I tailed off. Poirot did not look entirely convinced, and rolled on his side to face me. His dark eyes were huge in the dim light, and unusually serious.

"Hastings," he whispered again, "I know the English are sometimes uncomfortable with asking for things, but if there is anything you need from me, you must tell me. No matter what it is." I swallowed again.

"What if it's not something you're able to give?" I heard myself saying.

"Mon cher Hastings," he said softly, "There is nothing I would not give you if you needed it." As he spoke, he reached out and took my errant hand in his. My breath hitched at his warm touch, and it took all my willpower to hold onto my self control. I closed my eyes and tried to tug my hand back.

"Poirot, please.." I started, and was ashamed to hear a pleading note in my breathless voice. I got no further before I was cut off by Poirot's mouth on mine and his body pressed up against me. I whimpered and before I consciously knew what I was doing, I was kissing him back with equal fervour. My hands were trapped awkwardly between our bodies, but one of Poirot's was on my shoulder pulling me closer until there wasn't any space left between us. I don't know how long the kiss lasted, but when we eventually stopped we were both panting and breathless, a flush tinting my friend's usually pale cheeks. We were silent for a moment while we both came back down, and as our breathing slowed and reality crept back in, so did my nervousness and uncertainty. I heard Poirot give a low chuckle, and looked tentatively back up at him.

"Poirot?" He smiled at me, a more contented look on his face than I had ever seen.

"If I had known my obligatory presence in your bed would yield such results, I would have pushed you into a wall long ago!" At that, I laughed with him. He tucked his head into my chest and positioned himself against me. Together, we drifted off to sleep.


End file.
